Purely Platonic
by ThePointGirl
Summary: A short little ficlet in which Holmes and Watson are at 221 Baker Street. They are brothers, not by blood but by a bond. NO SLASH. Their relationship is 'purely platonic' excuse the pun.


**Title:** Purely Platonic  
**Author:** ThePointGirl  
**Fandom:** Sherlock Holmes  
**Pairing:** Holmes & Watson

**Warnings:** None really.  
**Feedback:** Review or message. (Hint, hint. Thank you)

**Disclaimer:**Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes :) A brilliant mind and so was his creation.

* * *

I watched him with increasing interest. He was sitting in the deep mahogany armchair with dark red velvet cushion next to the fireplace. His left hand was in a loose fist on the arm of the chair whilst the other hand was covering the thin mouth underneath. The dark curls that framed his face were longer than I had ever seen them, brushing next to his neck as he moved. The skin that formed the once very handsome man had become pale and was angelic; the eyes however were the opposite. His eyes mirrored the flames that were dancing in the fire. He was still quite handsome, in a way, few women would agree. I got up to make myself a drink looking at the clock briefly: it was ten thirty. I poured myself a glass of whiskey in a spare crystal glass; and turning around I took in the room I was occupying. The place was small and had items everywhere. Books, equipment, paper, glasses; his violin was against the wall by the window. There was a shelf laden with bottles of various chemicals and powders of colours black and grey, some pictures, a globe, a tiny blackboard pressed up against the wall and a cane propped up by the door. Finally by the armchair was an ornate table that was from his trip to India a few years ago. I walked over to the fireplace and I stoked the fire. It glittered and blazed violently. I looked over at my close friend who, only then, seemed to realize I was still in the room.

"My dear Watson, I almost forgot you were here," he said calmly, his mouth creasing at the sides as if in a gentle smirk. I gave a small smile, one of self pity. On the other side of the wall, though it was difficult to see, I caught my reflection. My skin was a lot paler than usual, not the glowing healthy skin of a man used to country hills and my lighter hair fell messy beside my face. I think my times with Holmes made me a double of him. I am a similar height to Holmes however I have broader shoulders and his slight build enables him to move quickly and with decision in conflicts.

"Don't worry about it Holmes. You're thinking. I know better then to interrupt your thoughts," I said and the man turned to me with a smile.

"I was thinking of the last case we solved. That young woman who died of yellow fever, looking back I was sure I was too over confident with my original deductions" Holmes stated. I raised my eyebrows. I viewed our relationship as a purely platonic one; therefore I disagree with some things Holmes says. The man got up from his armchair and proceeded to light his pipe, which was on the small table beside him. He threw the match in the fire and I watched as briefly the orange flames turned a brighter yellow with the burnt out match. He puffed at the pipe and I, still observing him, crossed my legs at the ankles. It was wonderful, I found, how our relationship had grown from nothing but acquaintances to good friends. Even though he does drive me to insanity on several occasions and many people ask how I could possibly be his friend: I deal with it. I was a major in chemistry and marvelled at the certain things that Holmes figured out but I couldn't. He notices details because he looks for them, whereas I narrow my attention to biological aspects of the cases we solve together.

Then I remembered what he said, not long ago, about his confidence.

"You weren't over confident Holmes and you know that. I prefer you to move quickly with a case, rather than dwell for hours as you do when you have nothing to occupy your time" I replied and he, having walked away from me, turned to face me once more. The slight frown impaled itself upon him again. He realized what I was talking about as his face softened and a small smirk enveloped on his lips. He finished with his pipe and I went over to the bookcase where I bought down a copy on Philanthropy. Opening it I stood with one hand in my pocket the other holding the book at a reasonable distance from my face. I coughed slightly as the waft of smoke washed over my form. As a doctor, smoke of any kind is negative, especially inhaled at the volume which Holmes frequents. I was two pages into the book when an extremely high note started to play. I looked up, startled. My eyes rested on Holmes who was playing his violin.

"Holmes must you play that wretched thing in my presence" I grumbled but the man continued playing either oblivious to my statement or not caring. I had never liked music that came from a string instrument such as a violin. The music depresses me, especially when it is played at three o'clock in the morning when I sleep in the room adjacent. Holmes plays it well no doubt but he will not win over my loathing for depressing string music. I shut the book sharply and put it back into its original place. Having now both hands in my pockets of the grey suit I was wearing I rolled my eyes at my companion. This he noticed as his eyes rested on me.

"I will never make you like violin music will I Watson?" he asked and I shook my head slowly. I moved to the fire and lent my left arm on the top of the mantel piece. It was his form of expressing himself, something detatched from solving cases and helping Inspector Lestrade, so would in no way would I stop him.

I wonder if there will be a case to solve tomorrow?


End file.
